Approaching 30 (NEXT MONTH!). Feeling that I will be able to live better after this date. More engaged. Less fearful.
As a child, I was sure that I would die in a convenience store robbery before my 30th birthday. I had seen too many deaths by convenience store robbery on TV. I also thought sure I would be killed by a serial killer in the woods at night, feeling only terror before my death.
Now I eat Rice & Shine for breakfast, a post-cleanse revision, and try to eat as many fruits and veggies as possible. Less sugar. Less caffeine. I still feel like a tuning fork that has just been struck most days, and for most of the day.
I want to re-enact Hannah Wiener's book, "The Fast". Without the starving and without the pain. I want to stage it as a play with COSTUMES and furious colorful lighting. I would like to play Hannah and wear white cotton underwear and undershirt. The set would accumulate refuse as the play went on. The other characters would glow various colors, depending on their auras.
I'm not sure if there should be voice-over narration with live movement and no live speech or a very stripped down script with only small amounts of dialog/monologue and movement.
I never planned my life past 30, thinking that I probably wouldn't live that long. How did I get that idea? But here I am and I guess I have to start thinking about what life after 30 will look like. More travel! More art! Less work! More time with Steve and friends. Spending the day painting with various colors of ink.
I love Fast Day 10, her birthday. She wraps her feet in paper towel and pink ribbon for the big trip across the room to the sink. She's so happy.
I seem to be sensitive to certain events : Yesterday, while eating in the cult-owned restaurant in downtown San Francisco, I heard a voice behind me that sounded as if it were coming from inside my head. I thought at first that it might be part of the music playing overhead, maybe the voice of the man who is their leader. I looked at the many large framed pictures of him around the room; the voice continued, off the beat of the music, mumbling. I turned to look behind me but there was only a women sitting alone. The light chanting music continued punctuated by this same soft unintelligible voice that I could not locate. I ignored the voice and continued to write and wait for my food. The walls glowed a high energy blue that made me feel both calm and paranoid at once. My food did come, just my milk shake. I waited, writing. Later, I turned to look at the woman again, sure that the voice must be coming from behind me. It was then that I realized she was speaking to someone underneath her table.
Today, riding the bus to a meeting at one of the middle schools where I teach in San Francisco, I noticed a woman wearing a beautiful beige sweater with an interesting black paisley ribbon pattern. An orange flannel collar poked out of the neck of the sweater. Her greying black hair was parted at the side. She sat with her eyes closed and I stood, holding the metal bar above me, facing her. My left foot stood next to a green cloth bag, knotted at the top, that she kept situated between her feet; the looped knotted end hanging from her hand. Suddenly the bag began to twitch violently, shaking. I looked around me at the other passengers and at the woman. No one seemed to notice. I stared at the bag, but it had stopped moving. "Maybe it was the wind." I thought. But minutes later, after a bump in the road, the bag began to shake and twitch again! as if a small bird were flapping around inside. Again, no one noticed. I considered asking the woman if she was keeping an animal in her bag, but thought better of it. Maybe she did have a bird in her bag that she was planning to take home and cook. What is that any of my business?
Lately too, I seem to be sensitive to close friends and family's feelings or energy or vibrations. What would you call it? I had a dream about my friends Lauren and Tony's baby the night before she was born. I received a silent distress call from my mother and called her only to find out that my Step Dad's mother had just died. On the anniversary of my father's death (May 5th), I lay in the bathtub and called out to Death, "I know you're in here! I can see you! I can hear you!" Later, laying on my yoga ball I thought of my friend Larry, how he should quit his job and start an Indiegogo campaign to finance his creative pursuits and wrote him an email to tell him so. I found out later that he was writing me an email at the very same time.